


Red Raven: Behind The Scenes

by PlotlessWanderer



Series: Red Raven [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Attempted Kidnapping, Gen, Gun Violence, Multi, Other, POV Multiple, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26571001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlotlessWanderer/pseuds/PlotlessWanderer
Summary: A companion piece to Red Raven
Series: Red Raven [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932565
Comments: 7
Kudos: 82





	Red Raven: Behind The Scenes

**Author's Note:**

> TWs at bottom of chapter

It was not how Bruce would have chosen to spend the evening. Had there only been one, no, even two pressing factors behind it he would have been able to find a way to avoid attending at all. But this was Saphia’s first American premier, Alfred had strongly implied that he would appreciate having Damian removed from the manor premises for the evening, and Dick had told him he needed to stream the event for Alfred as a small token of appreciation for confiscating the sixteen varieties of swords Damian had stashed throughout the house. 

It had apparently taken Alfred three days to suss out the illicit goods this time; a new record that both Damian and Alfred were unhappy with. 

So Bruce did his duty and took his son to the opera and set up a discreet camera by the stage with several microphones. He flirted with the ladies, played the buffoon for the masses and kept his child from too loudly critiquing both the performances and the premise of the story. 

Brucie Wayne was an exhausting performance to maintain at the best of times. It was several thousand times more exhausting when pinned by the judging eyes of ones children. 

The one redeeming virtue of being Brucie was the women. 

It said something about him, he knew. Something unpleasant. But there was something so… relieving about being in the company of someone young and beautiful and uncomplicated. There just something soothing about holding a soft hand and wrapping his arm around a welcoming warmth. How nice it was to be… gentle. 

So during the intermission, when Damian informed him that he was going to explore and perhaps find a snack, Bruce was guiltily relieved and more than ready to take the opportunity to find Saphia. 

“Do you have your wallet? Your phone?”

Damian nodded, flicking the wrinkles from his sleeves sharply. Bruce pretended not to notice the sheath subtlety disrupting the line of his jacket. 

“I will return before this mediocre performance resumes,” Damian declared, staring at Bruce like a particularly focused cat. Waiting to be dismissed.

Used to the boys odd rituals by now, Bruce reached out to clap his shoulder. It was tense and unmoving as a tiny boulder, the round of his shoulder swallowed up completely by Bruces palm. He’d performed the same gesture a thousand times on Dick, on… Jason. But it felt so different with Damian. Felt wrong and awkward and Bruce hated to think such things about his own son. Hated that he didn’t know how to fix whatever it was that sat so heavily between them. 

“Alright. Have fun.”

Damian nodded, sharp and precise as a soldiers salute, and marched away. 

Bruce watched until he was out of sight before leaving the Waynes box himself, heading backstage. 

Saphia was undeniably beautiful, with thick brown hair and a dainty build that seemed at odds with the power of her voice and presence. Her private dressing room was small and dingy, a stark contrast to the opulence of the rest of the opera house. 

Seated in front of the mirror, long blond wig settled on it stand beside her, she was reapplying stage makeup and beamed when he slipped through the door. 

“Bruce!” She leapt from the stool, costume bodice undone and swing open and loose over her wide skirt, and settled into his arms. 

“Saphia, beautiful!” He pressed a kiss against the crown of her head and enjoyed the simple ease of her in his arms, closing his eyes for a moment as he breath in the scent of sweat and makeup and sage shampoo. “You look ravishing.” 

She pulled back just enough to slap his arm playfully. “Do not lie to me, Bruce. I am looking a fright. A terror!”

“Never,” he swore and tapped a fingertip against her nose and smiled at the affronted huff he received in response.

He didn’t know much about her, which was unusual. He usually drew out the life stories of his dates. He enjoyed listening to them, hearing their ambitions, their fond recollections, their history. They were a spark of light in the murkiness of his life and he adored every minute when they finally became unguarded and easy in his presence. It was a gift. 

Saphia, however, was not like that at all. She would steer the conversation back to Bruce every time it turned personal, would laugh and flatter and chatter and yeah say nothing at all. Perhaps she enjoyed keeping an air of mystery about her. The drama of it. 

“How did you like the performance?” She chirped and slipped out of his arms to returned to the stool and her brushes. 

Bruce leaned against the closed door and watched as she skillfully swiped a heavy line of black over her eyelid. “I enjoyed it very much. It is astounding.”

“And me?” She smirked, coy and gleeful. “Was I astounding?”

“No. You were so much more.” He walked over the drab carpet and leaned down, chine hovering above one of her tiny shoulders as he met her gaze in the mirror. “You were exquisite.” 

Her dark eyes melted into something softer and unguarded for a moment. Then the smile returned and the expression was shuttered away. 

“Flattery, Bruce.”

“Hmm. The truth, I think.” Another swipe of the brush, heavy oil paint making a caricature out of her delicate features. “How much longer til you have to go back up?”

“Twenty minutes.” The brush was tossed onto the table and she stood, forcing him upright and back as she shimmied in place. “Button me?”

“It would be my privilege,” he said. And it was. It was always a privilege to share any sort of intimacy with someone like Saphia. 

Considering the historical, overly elaborate cut of the costume, the fastenings were blessedly simple, two zippers. 

Bruce could disarm a bomb one handed, but delicate ribbons and buttons somehow seemed to carry more weight. 

“Ah, I do not want to wear the wig,” Saphia sighed. Bruce followed her glum look at the wig stand and couldn’t help but grimace in agreement. It was a monstrosity. 

“At least you look lovely in it.”

“It makes my head too big. A hot air balloon.” It was a rare moment of sincerity as she scowled at the monstrosity and Bruce grinned helplessly, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pressing a kiss to her hair, contained in its mesh cap. 

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a tiny blue velvet box from his pocket and brought it back around into her line of sight. He had been planning to present it to her after the last act, but seeing her so disgruntled and genuine he couldn’t resist. 

“What is this?” She said curiously, dragging her fingertips over the top of the box. There was no trademark or logo, the jeweler too expensive and talented to bother with such things. 

“A gift to commemorate your first American premier.” He squeezed her slightly tighter, gentle as he could possibly be, and smiled when she met his gaze in the mirror. “And a small token of my regard.”

Flipping open the box, she gasped, taking it out of his hands to cup carefully in hers as she stared at the earrings. They were small, delicate, but breathtaking. Like her. Tiny diamonds and blood red rubies of such clarity and cut they glowed even in the yellow light from the mirror. 

“Oh, Bruce,” she whispered. “You are so kind to me.”

“Want to wear them now?” He asked, flicking one of the tacky, oversized faux pearls dripping from her ear. “Will they allow it?”

She scoffed. “I will allow. I am prima donna. Put them on me.”

Bruce complied easily. Her hair was soft and sweat damp, her skin warm against his fingers. No gloves or gauntlets between them, no need to worry about how his touch would be received. Pressing the backing closed he grinned at her beaming smile into the mirror as she turned her head from side to side. 

“You look beautiful.”

“I do!” She agreed delightedly. Meeting his eyes, she grabbed his hand off her shoulder and squeezed. “I love them, Bruce.”

“I’m glad.”

She gazed at him thoughtfully for moment and hummed, flicking a look at at the clock on the wall. “I want to show you something.”

“Ooh, a backstage tour?” Bruce drawled, letting her pull him along behind her out the drawing room door, down the narrow hall. Behind them was the humming bustle of dancers and actors and singers, being herded by staff and director. They turned sharply and Saphia released him just long enough to open a small door, kicking it low in the corner to unstick it before grabbing his hand once more and hurrying down steep stairs. 

Bruce was forced to angle himself sideways as they descended, the stairway too narrow. It turned sharply three times, and became progressively colder. The wood paneling on the walls was ancient and rotten gray, the stairs squealed with every footfall. 

“Where are we going?” 

“Beneath the stage,” Saphia said. 

It dawned on Bruce that all might not be as well as he would prefer. 

It was a compilation of little things. Not so much that he was being led to a dark, empty, abandoned location, but more that twenty minutes had already passed, that the long skirts of Saphia’s costume was sweeping up dust and grime. He sighed and tugged at her hand. 

“Are you sure we should do this now?” He asked, Brucie on full display. “Its getting kind of late, isn’t it?”

“There is time. Come Bruce, follow me.”

Bruce looked back up the stairs. The sound from the backstage hallway was too far away to hear. Further down the stairs was the muffled, distant thump of footsteps and equipment moving over the floors overhead, which at least supported her claim fo their destination. 

He looked at her, bright eyed in the dark, wearing his gift and let her pull him along. 

He at least owed it to her to learn what she wanted. 

The space beneath the stage was large. The ceiling high overhead was composed of massive beams and planks. There must have been a centuries worth of planks and various flooring between them and the stagetop, as the sound was muted to almost nothing. 

Sahpia drew him into the middle of the space and let go of his hand. 

Bruce tucked his hands into his pockets and looked around the space, observing from the corner of his eye as she walked farther away. “Interesting place. Why’d you want to show it to me?”

“I needed to get you alone. Please put your hands above your head, Bruce, and don’t make things difficult.”

Bruce sighed and raised his hands, turning to face her and the gun she pointed steadily at him. Apparently she had been hiding more under her massive costume than a trim figure. 

He was too tired to pretend to be surprised. “That bad of a date, was I?”

“Not at all. You are very lovely, Bruce.” She reached up to fiddle briefly with an earring, smiling. “This is business.”

He wondered whether Damian had found his way back to the box by now and how long he would wait patiently before deciding to seek him out and wrest him from the clutch of ‘that cheap wench’. He should probably wrap this up quickly, then. 

He hoped Dick never found out about this newest incident. Bruce would never live it down. 

“Are you going to kill me?” He asked, still channelling Brucie and glancing about nervously. 

Saphia looked briefly surprised, as though the thought had never occurred to her and she was at a loss as to why it did to him. As though her gun were as much a prop as the feathers . “Oh no, no. I am going to ransom you.”

Ah, that. He decided not to inform her of the zero tolerance and zero payout clause in the company policy. Instead, he frowned and lowered his hands to twist them fretfully together. “But I’m that one being held hostage? How are you supposed to get money from me when I’m here?”

She stared at him. And alright, he could concede he was laying it on a bit thick. But after a moment she continued. Most of his adversaries (and it was rather depressing that so many of his dates could qualify as such) had a convenient habit of becoming chatty when confident. 

“I shall contact your sons,” she declared and Bruce winced. Genuine, this time. Dick would concede to any demands, soft hearted man that he was. At least he could count on Damian to not give over a bent penny. She darted a quick glance at the ceiling. “What is the time?”

So they were on a schedule. Good to know. With a bit of bumbling, he got his wrist watch angled towards his face, fingers brushing the band and activating the beacon keyed to Alfreds personal computer. It would alert the man that all was not quick right and if Bruce did not contact him within the next half hour, the rest of the Bats would be alerted. He cleared his throat. “Five minutes to seven.”

“Perfect,” Saphia said. 

A muffled explosion sounded and shook dust down from the ceiling beams in a fine grey shower. The single light above the entrance behind Bruces back flickered. 

And now his patience was wearing thin.

“What was that?” He asked, low and soft and dangerous. 

Saphia did not notice. “Ah, our cue.” Reaching into the depths of her skirts, she pulled out a glow stick and snapped it over her knee. Its green light turned her stage makeup strange and macabre as she tossed it towards him. “In front of me and to the left.”

“I need to go to my son.”

Saphia sighed. “Do not worry, Bruce. He will be fine.”

“There was an explosion,” he pointed out, reasonably. But there was no reason in Gotham, not even for a foreigner such as Saphia. 

“It is only thieves. Nothing to worry over.”

Gunfire popped softly and Bruce clenched the glow stick in hand. 

Damian was well trained and deadly. There likely was no reason to worry, though not for any reason that Saphia would consider. But Damian was still a child. And Bruces chest felt hollow and cold as the sound of the explosion replayed through his mind over and over. 

He had nearly lost one child in such a way. 

“Walk,” Saphia said. The safety clicked off.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Bruce asked as he went to the indicated door, nearly invisible until he had the glow stick pressed against it. He struggled with the latch and waited for Saphia to come closer. 

“It leads up, to the back of the house,” she said. “What time is it now?”

“7:14.”

“Hurry.”

The stairwell beyond the door was nearly identical to the one Saphia had led him down, narrow and full of sharp turns. Convenient for Bruce. 

When he reached the door, he turned smoothly, stepped back down two steps and knocked her gun up with one swing of his hand. Then he pushed her down the stairs as a shot fired. 

As she thudded back down the stairs, Bruce kicked the door open and ran through, intent on finding his son.

It was depressingly unsurprising to run into another gun. 

“What the hell?” A man in a cheap tuxedo said. The gun he leveled at Bruce was of a higher caliber than Saphia’s. The hallway in which he stood was more opulent than backstage, clearly part of the main building and open to patrons, but it was empty. “What have you done to Saphia?”

“Ah, well…” Bruce began, letting the glow stick slip to the tips of his fingers. The man was still several yards away, but Bruce thought the odds were in favor regardless; he’d hit targets from a greater distance with more ridiculous projectiles before. 

Then footsteps stomped up behind him. 

“Saphia!” The man called. 

“He pushed me,” she hissed. “He pushed me down the stairs!”

“Sorry about that,” Bruce said with palpable insincerity. “But you can’t really blame me.”

“I will kill you!” The gunman said and raised his weapon to do just that. Bruce prepared to throw the glow stick; with a gun at his back and front, now was not the optimal time to attempt an escape.

“No!” Saphia said sharply. “The plan must be followed. You, walk.”

Bruce walked. 

After turning a corner and climbing a set of stairs to the more familiar hallway that led to the pit seating, he glanced over his shoulder at the two walking well out of reach behind him. 

The man was tall and fit and young, handling his weapon with hard won competence and keeping the majority of his attention on his target. A soldier, by his his bearing and the unflattering cut of his hair. One that had seen combat. 

Saphia was filthy with dust and walking with a faint limp. It was difficult to tell through the skirts, but he thought she had likely injured her hip, which was all to the better for him. It would impact her balance and maneuverability more than if the injury were to her leg. Blood was smear over the lower half of her face, mixing into a paste with the grey dust, and if her nose wasn’t broken, it was surely battered. She glared at him as he dabbed her sleeve over her mouth, though the synthetic fabric did nothing but smear the mess further. 

“Left,” she said sharply, jerking her head towards the door with a Staff Only sign.

Bruce went left. 

It was a fairly large room, full of rolling clothing racks, some empty, some full of costumes and curtains and cloth prop covers. A laundry setup was set against one wall, steamer and washers and dryers. Another door was at the other end of the room, likely leading to the backstage area. 

Now was the best time to make his move, he decided, and was prepared to lunge to the side and behind a rack of heavy canvas drapes. And then the door they had just come through slammed open.

All three of them turned to look, though the gunman swung wide to keep Bruce in his sights. 

The newcomer squinted at the lot of them and sighed heavily.

“Really, Bruce?” Selina’s voice was all but drenched in exasperation. 

She’s a vision, as usual, hair swept up and immaculate, diamonds dripping from her ears and throat and wrist, the couture dress likely a gift from a designer worshiping at the alter of her perfect proportions. The look of disgust on her face simply enhanced her elegance. 

“Miss Kyle!” Bruce called out pitifully. “Call the police! I’m being abducted!”

“Who would want you?” She muttered. 

“Who are you?!” Saphia shouted, gun still unwavering on Bruce but most of her attention on the new comer. Her accomplice still kept his gun and his bitterly enraged scowl on Bruce. “Put your hands up!”

Selina complied easily, a bundle of black velvet swinging from her hand. By the faint clink chiming from its depths, Bruce imagined he knew what sort of plunder it contained. 

“Lina?" 

Bruce tensed in tandem with Selina as a shorter figure appeared behind her. 

It was a girl, only a few years older than Damian, with blond hair falling out of a high bun, makeup half smeared away. The pale lavender dress she was wearing, just a few degrees off in quality from Selina’s, had been rather brutalized, the skirt gathered up and tied into a series of sloppy knots that raised the hemline well above her knees and displayed bare feet and the edge of neon pink running shorts for all to see. A superman bandaid was peeling off the front of her left calf.

“Get behind me,” Selina snapped. 

Abruptly, the girl became aware of the attention leveled her way. It took her slightly longer to process the guns. When she did, her shoulders dramatically drooped and the makeshift cloth sack that Bruce was fairly sure was a tablecloth tumbled off one shoulder to thud heavily onto the floor. 

“Crap,” she said, Gotham accent thick enough to smother. 

“Hands up!” Saphia demand again. “Come in and close the door. Hurry!”

The look Selina level at Bruce was shockingly venomous. But considering the girl was keeping close behind her and looking a strange mixture of nervous and delighted, he couldn’t really blame her. He had, unfortunately, been in her position many times with equally high stakes.

“Why do you cause problems for me even when I avoid you?” Selina snapped. Saphia herded her towards the laundry area, shooting nervous glances at the door. 

“Do not talk,” Saphia demanded. She looked haggard, hair escaping from the net cap, drenched in sweat and covered in dust as it hung lank around her face. Bruce wondered if she had assumed her plan would progress without a hitch. 

“What do we do now?” The girl whispered loudly, looking from the gun aimed at her, to Selina, to Bruce. Her eyes were bright with curiosity and a strange sort of intelligence. Rather worryingly, the guns did not seem to concern her. 

“Just stay behind me,” Selina reiterated. She had finally turned her narrowed eyes to Saphia, red painted lips pressed narrow and tight as though to keep her teeth from snapping at the other woman’s throat. 

It seemed Saphia was not aware of the danger, because she looked at the girl consideringly and smiled. “No. You, come here.”

“What?” The girl said.

“Don’t even think about it,” Selina hissed. 

Saphia simply readjusted her aim and repeated, “You, come here.”

“Uuuum.” Wetting her lips, the girl shuffled from foot to foot. “No?”

“If you do not come, I shall shoot your mother.”

“Okay then!” The girl said brightly as Selina attempted to snatch her arm, neatly twisting out of her reach.

“Don’t you dare,” Selina said, voice low. “If you hurt her I will tear out your eyes, do you understand me?”

Saphia seemed unaware of the horror she had just invoked through her actions and was herding the girl in front of her, confidence restored as she smiled at. Bruce. “There. Now if you behave badly I will not need to shoot you. I will shoot the child instead.”

Selina growled. 

Bruce glared. Whatever qualms he had about dealing with Sophia and her cohort were soundly quashed. The first opportunity that arose he would put in end to the farce, Brucie facade be damned. 

The girl stopped a few feet away and looked up, craning her neck back to meet Bruces eyes. The blush and foundation had been rubbed from one cheek, freckles peeking through, and a small gap was visible between her front teeth as she smiled nervously.

“Hey,” she said and waved weakly. 

She was stocky and muscular and very, very young. 

“Hi. I’m Bruce.” He tried to smile reassuringly. 

“Pfft. Yeah dude, I know. You really being kidnapped?” She looked nervously over her shoulder. Not at Saphia and her gun, but at Selina. 

“So it seems.”

The girl finally looked at Saphia and grimaced. “By your girlfriend?”

Bruce grimaced as well. “I can conclusively say our relationship is at an end at this point.”

“Yeah, good call. Stockholm Syndrome is no way to form a lasting connection, am I right?”

A eery sense of deja vu fluttered through he pit of Bruces stomach. A freckled face and curly blond hair was superimposed over tan skin and wavy black. The smile was the same, as was the irreverence. 

She waited expectantly for an answer and when it didn’t come, patted his arm. “There there, Mister Wayne. It’ll be okay.” Leaning closer, she whispered (still a fraction too loud) “Lina’s the best, she’ll get us out of this in a cats fart, I swear.”

“Stop talking and walk. Do not try anything, Bruce.”

Over Saphia’s shoulder, Bruce saw the velvet bundle slip from Selina’s hand and fall quietly to the floor. She met his eyes and, though Bruce was no J’onn J’onzz, he had no difficulty understanding what she wanted of him. He inclined his head slightly and dropped his hand lightly on the girls shoulder. 

She looked down at it quizzically. “Need something?”

Bruce dragged her into his arm and rolled to the side, between two racks. Saphia shouted, the gunman roared and guns fired. 

“Lina!” The girl shouted into his shoulder, suddenly all elbows and knees and solid little fists as she fought to get free. Bruce continued through the racks, carrying her with him. If he let her go, he had no doubt Selina would do to him whatever she was currently doing to Saphia. And Bruce always preferred to face an irate Catwoman from the kevlar enforced security of his suit. 

“Let me go, let me go!” The girl snarled. Feral as a fighting dog and just as quick to use her teeth if the scrape of them against his wrist were any indication. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he said whispered and grunted when her skull slammed into his throat. Another shot, followed by a high shriek of pain from Saphia. Bruce rolled under a rack and out the other side, dragging the girl with him.

The exit was within sight, unguarded now the that gunman had hurried to aid Saphia. A clear shot to freedom and Bruce gripped the girls shoulders and pushed her towards it. 

“Hurry and go. Selina will follow right after, alright?” 

“But—“ 

“Go,” Bruce said, and let the Cowl seep into his voice. 

She went. 

Bruce ducked back into the racks and peered around a length of paint canvas. The gunman was spinning in a circled, weapon aimed high as he looked around wildly. Saphia was one the ground, nose definitively broken now, and one wrist clutch to her chest and wrenched into a hideously extremely angle. 

Selina must have been even more ruthless than usual. 

Bruce crouched and waited for the gunman to turn his back. 

“Lina!” 

The gunman, Saphia and Bruce wrenched around to look back at the door. The girl ran through it, looking around for Selina, who Bruce saw appear on the other side of the room through his periphery and start sprinting. But she was too far.

Saphia hissed and raised the gun in her uninjured hand, red eyes narrowed and mouth twisted. 

Selina changed course towards her but she was still too far. Bruce was too far to stop her, but he was close enough to do something. 

Lunging out of the racks, he tackled the girl, wrapping around her and crushing her even smaller. Pressure bloom through his leg and back, but he didn’t let it slow him, rolling them both towards the open door and shoving her through, tumbling after. 

Through ringing ears he heard gunfire, screaming and then silence. Beneath him the girl was stiff and still, hands clenched tight in his jacket as he pinned her flat. His whole body was buzzing and pain was starting to seep through the wall he built to contain it, and from the horrible fire racing through his lower body he knew he wouldn’t be able to protect her as anything beyond a shield. 

He breathed heavily and waited for Selina. 

They did not have to wait long. 

Delicate hands gripped the back of his jacket and yanked him away, tossing him aside like discarded laundry as her snarling voice hissed “Get off, get off, get off!"

Her hands were far gentler as they skimmed over the girls, over her face, through her hair. Searching for any damage and lingering over the smudges beneath a wide blue eye. 

“I’m sorry,” the girl sobbed quietly, hiccuping. She was staring at Bruce like she had never seen anything like him before. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, Mister Wayne.”

“Shh, sweetheart, hush. Don’t bother, the buffoon will be just fine.” Selina brushed her fingers through the tangled blond hair one last time and then turned her attention to Bruce. “There some saying about God protecting idiots, isn’t there?”

“Gee, thanks, Miss Kyle,” Bruce gasped. He could feel liquid heat pooling under his back, molten against skin that was growing colder with every passing minute. Blood loss. He must have been hit somewhere particularly unfortunate if he was already feeling the effects. 

“Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut, Bruce.” She was unbuckling his belt and dragging his shirt up out of the way, eyes narrowed as she took in the damage. She snapped her fingers, the sound wet with blood, and said, “Call the police and tell them where we are, and that we need an ambulance. Immediately.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Okay.” Her hands were shaking hard as she dialed, tears dripping down her face.

Distancing himself from the sound of ripping cloth and the agony of pressure being applied, Bruce sucked in a sharped breath and tried to smile. “Hey, sweetie, its fine. You’re doing great.”

“Shut up,” she sobbed waveringly. Then “No, not you, I’m sorry, we n-need an ambulance please. Mister Wayne is dying!”

“I’m not,” Bruce slurred, a faint hint of insult breaching the pain and growing lethargy. He was not going to die as Brucie. He refused. Dick and Alfred would be so disappointed in him. Damian would likely disown him. 

And… still needed to find Jason. He needed to find Jason. 

The girl (and who was she? He needed to remember to tease Selina the next time they crossed paths, maybe throw some of her choice words regarding Robin back at her) continued to speak, trying to impart directions. Her voice kept fading in and out. So did her face.

“No, eyes open Bruce. Come on, you can do it.”

“Selina,” he mumbled. Her face was a blur in front of his eyes and when he reached up to touch his hand missed. He didn’t have the energy to raise it again. 

“Eyes on me, Bruce,” she said grimly. Her hands were fire against his skin, sending agonizing spikes of pain through every point of heavy contact. “Keep them on me.”

“Of course,” he said. 

And he could have sworn he still saw her as everything tilted, softened and faded away.

**Author's Note:**

> TWs for violence, attempted kidnapping, gunshot wounds.
> 
> Soooo... the main fic is fighting me like a tiger and is winning. As a tiger should, really. So I decided to put this out instead of a new chapter, since I have already mentioned doing so at some point. Sorry for not putting a new chapter of Red Raven up, I know thats what everyone would have preferred! Me included! Also, this is my first time writing Bruce and I don't really know how to feel about how he came out... oh well. The show goes on.
> 
> Please let me know if the rating should be raised or more warnings added.
> 
> Anyway, I hope this was a enjoyable. Comment if you are so inclined and have a good week! :)


End file.
